SevenMarkPackAttackMobi

by Carys Weldon

  Hands out, she turns--turtle speed--so I can look her over, repeating, “What do you think?”

  That’s when it hit me. She’s cut her hair again, not that I focus long on that--what the hell would you call it? A pixie cut? A cap?

  Something easy to manage. Amber is all about comfort and being at ease with herself--what works for her. If I don’t like it, I can go screw myself--literally. I have to appreciate her strong character, and her no-nonsense take on who she is. She ain’t fucking apologizing to anybody. Least of all me.

  Wait. I don’t want that to sound wrong. She’s the first to admit when she’s isn’t correct on something. I was talking about her self-image.

  It’s the most admirable quality she has. She’s self-secure and it’s a turn-on, plain and simple. She wants to wear a fuckin’ miniskirt? She does. She doesn’t give a shit about what other people think. She enjoys life, and she’ll be Gaia-damned if some little asswipe is gonna hold her down for it.

  Pausing with her back to me, she smoothed her hands over her hips and asked, “How does it look from back there?” The fabric stretched tightly across her ass and hips.

  I growled. Figured it was the best way to get the point across.

  Turning her head over her shoulder, she smiled all-out. “You like?”

  Cheshire Cat to my wolfish grin. Oh, yeah, honey, I like. I’m sure that’s all over my face.

  I cleared my throat and pulled my gaze from the line-up of vertical roses that climbed her crack-line. What did she think, I’d gone blind? Of course I liked it.

  But I could play her game. Focusing on the bridge of her nose, I managed, with a straight face and calmness that didn’t match my pulse, “Your haircut definitely accentuates your eyes.” Her big, dark brown eyes. Jet black hair capped around the tan muzzle--er, face. Yes, she’s got a rather long nose. Almost looks Jewish. Or Italian.

  What do I look like, a friggin’ genealogy specialist? Maybe you’d think she looks Hispanic. She’s from a pure garou bloodline, that’s all I know. I can smell that much. She’s been around a bit and can take care of herself on the street, in the woods, or anywhere else you want to put her.

  I’m sure one of those points about her is gonna save my ass in the end. Just not sure which.

  Something bothers me about that, though. I always smell bastet on her. Like she plays on the wrong side of town when I’m not looking. We never talk about it. Ever. I don’t want to know.

  Touching herself, cupping her breasts, lifting them to a perkier point, she asked, “You write in your journal yet?”

  Her fingers titillated her nipples; I saw the tips rise. Well, maybe that’s because she had them between her thumb and forefinger. Both breasts. Both hands. Hands on.

  I had to inhale through a tight nose. “I’ve been meditating on it. I’ll do it later.”

  She is much better to meditate on.

  Blinking a-purpose, giving me a wide-eyed owl look, she shook her head, and firmly grunted, “Uh...No.”

  I spread my legs, gave her the perfect place to settle in against me, thought that might coax her to come closer. Just a few steps. Even held my arms out. All I needed was to get my hands on her. She’d melt, I was sure of it. “I’d rather--”

  Amber cut me off. “Did you not read the inscription?”

  I glanced at the bastard--the journal, I mean. She wants me to clean up my mouth, too. Says if I do, I can put it anywhere I want. I’m already licking my lips.

  I am a master of self-control. I am a master of self-control. I keep telling myself that, but she pushes me to my limits. I insisted, “But you’re--”

  Obviously ready. Damn, I don’t know how she kept the juices from rolling down the inside of her legs. Talk about your Kegels.

  By far, Amber had more impressive inner muscles than outer ones. And as I said already, she was looking good in that department. All she had to do was climb on and I came. And don’t go thinking any bullshit about a big woman being on top. I like her straddling me. I like her under me, too, but what the hell? She’s fucking great in bed. Enthusiastic. Makes me laugh. Makes me pant. Get my point? She is everything I want, and more than I can handle.

  Her hands dropped to her hips again and she disappointed me with a matter-of-fact, “I’m willing to wait.”

  See what I mean?

  That got me. I replied, “Don’t do me like that. Come out here all dressed up in something see-through and--”

  “Dog, you better get that tongue back in your mouth.”

  Yeah, sometimes she puts on the ghetto act. Who knows, maybe she’s from one of those lighter-skinned African lines? Damn, maybe I’ll have to ask her where her family line comes from. Got me curious now. Never met any of her relatives. Don’t know if she has any left alive.

  But she’s all garou. I’d smell it if she weren’t. That’s one thing I’ve got--the best nose in the whole damn world. I sniff out unnaturals for a living.

  Maybe I should have said...I snuff out unnaturals. You know, people who’ve been bitten and transformed into werewolves. There’s a blight on society.

  I’m the hero that keeps the world safe.

  What? Didn’t come across like a big hero? What did you want, to see me pulling on tights and a cape? Ain’t never gonna happen. I do my business in the dark. In the shadows. After you’ve gone to sleep.

  And they never write me up in the papers.

  At least, I never got in the news much before Bark disappeared. Now, it seems like every day someone is calling for an interview.

  Amber spun on her heels, heading out of the room, announcing, “Let me know when you’ve written something.”

  Her ghetto booty disappeared a second later, before I could wrap my tongue around anything.

  So that’s why I’m writing this. Trying not to dwell on her fine form in stretched sheer--what kind of fabric is that? I never had a reason to go into a fabric store before, but I’m thinking if I’ve got to write down things, I should do a little research. Elasticized lace?

  Forget the fabric store. I bet I can get the answer at the adult specialty shop. Probably where she picked that number up, anyway.

  From around the corner she said, “I don’t hear that pen scratching.”

  Her ears are better than...well, just about anybody’s.

  So, okay, but I think her ploy is backfiring. I muttered, “I feel a lot more like Vesuvious now than I did before.” I unzipped my pants, to see the state of the volcano.

  Oh. Don’t even judge me. You can’t begin to understand the pricktease I’m living with. And clothes? Who made that shit up in the first place? Some prude bitch, no doubt. I was born naked, and made to be naked. You can’t tell me different.

  Inhale, Mark. Don’t get worked up. I keep telling myself that, but--my cock is steel rod hard, achingly so. That’s what she does to me.

  Definitely holding back an eruption. Man, I had to ease the pain. Wrapping my hand around myself, I leaned back, closed my eyes, pictured Amber in that damn cat suit.

  One stroke. Two.

  “Oh, I don’t think so.” She startled me out of my reverie. “Zip that up and get busy.”

  “I was getting busy,” I growled like a peevish child. I’m not always immature--just when she does shit like that. I like the tease, the holding back, but at some point you gotta get cranky. I should’ve beat off before she got home. I should’ve just tossed her down.

  I think she read my mind. Her eyelids narrowed. Crossing her arms over her chest, she leaned against the wall--on the far side of the room, pursing her lips. She asked, “Ya think?”

  I got the message. She wasn’t leaving, and I wasn’t relieving.

  Not liking that, I pissed again, “I don’t know what to write.”

  Now, I should probably get this straight, up front. I’m not a whiner. But...fuck...she has me so frustrated, I can’t stand it. To tell you the truth, it pisses me off when I hear it in my voice.

  I think she likes pushing me, which is why I try
real hard to keep a grip on things.

  “I know what will cool your ardor.” She suggested with a straight face, “Write about Frank. Or better yet, write about your brother.”

  That did it. I could feel my manhood shrink instantly.

  “Better yet, write about that day we met. That would pretty much have to include all three of us, wouldn’t it?”

  “Well, if I start with choking that guy.” Yes. Choking was on my mind. One good grip, that’s all I needed. Damn, I wish she’d come closer. I had a feeling that was a crotchless setup. She couldn’t be so cruel as to lock her ‘precious’ up in an entry-proof teaser, could she?

  “Works for me.”

  Next thing I knew, she was gone again. I had to blink and retrace. What worked for her?

  I heard the icemaker. It didn’t take me a second to picture what was going on in the kitchen--I could see her--throat arched backward, face tipped to the ceiling, the early evening light coming through the window over the sink--all in that cat suit--icing her nipples through the lace, trying to stay cool.

  She thinks the A/C’s on the fritz. The truth is I turned it on low, hoping she’d be hot enough to get undressed and sweaty, that maybe my pheromones would get to her. Natural wolf cologne, some say, is hard to resist.

  So far she seems to be ignoring both me and the heat, pretty well, too. In fact, Amber’s got me by the balls that way. The more she turns her back, the faster I follow--and try to head her off. I don’t really know what she wants out of me, besides writing in the damn diary.

  Sighing loudly from the other room, she said, “Mark.”

  I picked up the pen, clicked the tip hard and opened the bastard.

  Really surprising me, she intoned, “Don’t do it if you don’t want to. I won’t force you.” Then she groaned to herself, muttering, “Gaia knows I can’t force you to express your feelings. Maybe this isn’t gonna work out.”

  That bothered me. I wanted to throw the pissin’ pen and book and show her how well things could work out. We don’t need to talk. I don’t need to work through any emotions, or issues. I want to be with her. That should be enough.

  A million ways, I’ve shown her how much I’m in love with her, but she’s right on one thing. I don’t put things into words. If you say it, you know, or put it into words in any way--like writing--that makes you vulnerable. It’s the first rule of garou. There’s always someone looking to climb over you, and your weaknesses are how they do it.

  I did throw the pen and let the book fall shut, and ran a hand through my hair. It needs cut. Down to my shoulders now. I peeled a reddish-blond strand from between my fingers. Fuck. I’m losing hair over it all. Maybe I should hack it off or shave my head? Yeah, I’m deflecting what I’m really thinking.

  I’m gonna lose her.

  Gaia.

  Looking up at the ceiling, I asked myself, “Why can’t you...?”

  I cut the thought off, instead. I know I’m a bastard, a tongue-wagging son of a bitch. Pinching my cock and balls, I squeezed the pain of my existence. If I could just stop thinking with it, I could figure out what I’m not doing right.

  Amber walked through the room again, straight to the front closet. It took me a second to realize what she was doing. Walking out--dressed like that. I did a doubletake when it sank in.

  My brain jumped before my legs moved, and I thought...Oh. No fucking way. I got up, crossed the room with lightning speed, and slammed a fist to the front door above her head as she pulled her coat on. She didn’t even flinch. She reached up and fluffed her hair in the back, over her collar. For a second, I thought I almost saw a smile. Must’ve been my imagination.

  I swallowed, reaching deep for the right words. You know, something that wouldn’t tick her off, that would sound reasonable--that would say ‘take your coat off and don’t even think about going out on me’. But she mesmerized my brain waves.

  Big brown eyes, pouty lips. I leaned in, nose to nose with her. I wanted to kiss the hell out of her, literally.

  She was putting off some vibes, though. Daring me.

  I refocused, letting my attention travel up to her eyes. That set me back on my heels. Her gaze could’ve killed me--the pupils enlarged, blazed red, and nearly burned me through. A hint of crinos barely under control. The werewolf within reach. It didn’t take a brain surgeon to know she was pissed and, seriously, headed out.

  I had no idea, really, what I had done. I just knew I didn’t want her going out like that, in that outfit, with that mood.

  “Move, Mark.”

  I shook my head. “You are not going out like that.”

  Defiantly, she lifted her chin. “You gonna stop me?”

  Gaia, she’s beautiful like that.

  Did I mention that she’s taller than me? Barefoot, we’re pretty close. In those heels--

  I’m not some scrawny ass, either. Think bulldog, fucking linebacker.

  But you can probably see by this, I’ve got a problem with her. I’m almost afraid to put my hands on her. I keep circling, waiting for her to say it’s okay.

  I’ve never been like that before. I’m afraid I’ll drive her away. But, Gaia, I think I’m driving her away as it is.

  Putting a hand to my chest, gripping my shirt in a full fist, she made me move. Oh, I could have held my ground, I could have fucking shoved her to the floor and ripped that damn suit off of her, but she would have flipped out, gone crinos, slashed me and left me bleeding.

  Yeah. I’m a garou. I could crinos, too. And I could damn well fucking rape her and leave her bleeding. But that ain’t cool. It ain’t ever cool to even consider rape, in my opinion. A man ain’t nothing if he’s gotta use his sheer strength to work a woman.

  But I was itching to put my hands on her, to hold her and to show her who was boss.

  But you gotta see what’s going on here.

  I’m treading water as it is. And when I talk about bleeding...I’m not worried about a few pissy-ass wounds. I’m talking about my heart, and her leaving me altogether. The thought is strangling me, tying my tongue and my hands.

  I let her walk out on me. I backed up, took my hand off the door--and grudgingly let her go--without saying another word.

  Before going, she growled, “Don’t ever try and stop me again.”

  The sound of her retreating steps fading, and the car starting, had me punching the wall. I put a hole beside the door, and my forehead to the raised wood panel, wondering which adage was really true...if it’s yours, let it go and it’ll come back to you...or hang on to what’s yours with all your might.

  Was I hanging too tight? Or not tight enough?

  The Diary Of Mark Wolf

  Chapter One

  Picture my cousin, Frank, following me like a chicken-puppy--the kind that nips at your heels and runs, squealing, if you turn on him. Normally, he has the sense to keep his distance from me when I’m in a mood.

  Frank’s usually the lurker type that slinks around the shadows, just out of reach, watching everything. He’s also one of those puny little round men, the typical receding-hairline accountant, with black-rimmed plastic glasses, a bow tie and an ugly, high dollar suit. Some stretchy fabric, like polyester or nylon. I wouldn’t be caught dead in something like that. And he probably isn’t more than five foot eight with his best shoes on.

  I, on the other hand, tower. Not that I’m remarkably tall. Like I said, I’m just over five foot ten, but my shoulders are bigger than most football players. Did a little of that--back in the day. Certainly know how to give and take hits. I’m like a tree: big trunk, log-like limbs. And I am, by far, in the prime of my life.

  Hell if I’m not.

  Dogging my heels from the boardroom, Frank muttered, “I thought we agreed to conduct the executive meetings of Wolf Enterprises in a civilized manner.”

  Pausing mid-stride, and spinning to face him, I asked my cousin with a growl, “Do you have a death wish?”

  At that moment, I wanted to kill him--and anyone else within
reach. With one slash, I could’ve slit his throat. And I don’t really think he questioned whether or not I was contemplating it. I’m sure it was there, in my red-brown eyes. Eyes that can see right through a man, almost. I have what you’d call a penetrating stare. And my reddish colored hair is a definite tip-off to the killer temper I suffer to keep under wraps.

  Not that anyone at Wolf Enterprises had any doubts as to that. They all knew what I did for the company. Bark’s brother, the bag man. That’s what they called me behind my back. But I heard them.

  I liked to think of myself as the Enterprise’s equalizer. The Lobos playing-field leveler. I evened things out, ya know? And I did a good job of it, too.

  Frank sniffed, looking at my hands.

  Unlike your average man in a rage, I wasn’t balling my fists. There was no thought of punching Frank. On the contrary, I was staying loose, loose enough to shift into crinos on him. Shook it out, even. Rolled my shoulders. Spread my feet.

  Quick kill, no time to react, that was what went through my mind. Make an example.

  He licked his lips while I fought the urge--but he didn’t move. Didn’t even flinch. Give him credit for that. He didn’t provoke me more.

  Frank was the last one I should have wanted to kill, but he was the messenger. The one that had told me just how bad things were. The one who was pushing his personal luck to the limits just by standing within reach.

  Let me say this, too...I might be big and bulky, but I’m fucking quick for a Gaia-damned lumbering wolf. He never would’ve seen it coming. I reminded him, “That was before I saw a news report of a mass murder scene with my brother’s things in plain view.”

  Victim or murderer? The jury was still out. Forensics would have to determine whose body parts were there. Had Bark gone ape-shit and killed innocents? Or defended himself against...?

  Frank, of course, struggled with his manhood, and me. There we stood, in our expensive three-piece suits, every outer inch human, smack dab in the middle of the eight-foot-wide hallway, taking up most of it with our posturing stances, people pinned in the room behind us, afraid to breathe. Funny, but I got the impression that he was ready to defend them. That he would have actually taken me on if I’d decided to go back in there.